The Night My Father Was Murdered
by xlMeowMixlx
Summary: Harry Osborn thought his life could get no worse, until the night he walked upstairs and witnessed what he believed to be the truth: Spiderman murder his father.


Author's Notes: Not one of my best, I suppose, but this occurs right before Harry Osborn walks in on Spiderman standing over his father's body. I like it, I guess, because you get to see from the perspective of not just Peter Parker, and you realize that Harry had every reason to suspect that Spiderman murdered his father. After all, Harry received no explanation, and… what would you do if you walked in with someone standing over your dead father? Yeaaaahhh… see what I mean?

Disclaimer: Characters included are © Marvel Comics.

He smelled like alcohol. The smell soaked through the soft fabric of his clothes and washed all over him like the spray from an unforgiving skunk. It was amazing the boy wasn't dead from alcohol poisoning, and yet he didn't even seem to be drunk. In fact, besides immensely troubled, the boy seemed perfectly fine.

He steadily tipped the rim to the bottle of vodka onto the edge of the shot glass before him, and watched the liquid run out of the bottle and drizzle slowly into the cup. Once nearly filled to the top, he drew the bottle away, placed it on the counter, and then danced it around absently before stopping the waltz and facing the shot glass. The clear liquid that lay flat in the glass before him reflected his face, and he saw the distraught lurking everywhere from behind the pupils of his eyes to the creases in his skin. These creases were a result of the large frown that appeared almost permanently engraved in the young man's countenance.

People had said drowning your sorrows was the worse way to comfort yourself, but at the moment, Harry Osborn felt that there was no other humanly possible way. In seemingly one day, his world had gone crashing down… and it was his best friend's entire fault. Well, maybe not entire. He couldn't blame Peter for the whole ordeal, after all, Peter had loved Mary Jane for as long as any of them could remember, and he probably didn't realize how close she was getting to him in those few moments. He probably was just ecstatic that she was speaking to him. Peter was never very good with girls.  
Harry raised the glass, and swiveled the vodka around, watching droplets fail to escape from their glass prison. They splashed up, smacked into the glass, and fell back down into oblivion. One of those droplets was him wasn't it? He was that one little droplet that couldn't escape the hell that had become his life. He thought he had made it out once, but Peter had become the glass barrier from seemingly nowhere and smacked Harry back down. Denied. After all, Peter had got M.J., Peter had the loving aunt who was always there for him, and Peter had even won the approval of Harry's own father. Yeah. Norman Osborn loved Peter more then his own son. Harry snorted slightly at this, a frustrated sneer stretching across his face. Oh yeah. Peter was more of his father's son then he was. He tilted back his head and downed the shot of vodka, jealousy raging within him. Sneer wiped from his face, he threw the glass down hard on the counter, causing it to shatter. Oh well. No big loss. His father had too many others to notice the one missing… another scenario that reminded Harry of his own being. His father had too many other important people, important deals, important _things_ to even realize his own son's presence.

Harry let out a sigh, and stood up, ignoring the fact that there was shattered glass covering the table, and an open bottle of vodka left out. Glancing out the window, he noticed the sun was long gone, and judging by the sudden sweep of exhaustion that washed over him, it was well after midnight. Bed time. He yawned, and headed towards the stairs, walking unusually straight for a man who had just consumed over eight shots of vodka.

Tracing his thoughts back to those he had just moments ago of his father, he shook his head and paused to lean against the wall, facing the front steps. His eyes ran up and down those steps, specifying on the most insignificant details. The fine imported carpeting that ran from top to bottom, and the nice oak railing that was always polished and shined to perfection. No stains were present; not a hair loose amongst the identically trimmed strands. He took a step forward, and glanced down. Right here, only hours ago, his father had apologized to him, and Harry felt, for once, that his father actually believed in him. He reconsidered the cruel thoughts that had pinpointed his father wrongly. Harry did love his father. He loved, respected, stuck up for, and looked up to his father more then ninety percent of children who had fathers who actually did pay attention to them. Of course, his father was right about everything, and Harry knew he should listen more often. His father, after all, was right about M.J. … Oh M.J. …  
Harry placed a hand onto the railing, and drew himself slowly up the stairs, letting out a sigh, heavy with the stench of alcohol. His face screwed up in a mixture of pain and fury. Mary Jane was a little bitch, and Harry couldn't grasp why he had loved her. Had it been because that was the only thing Peter wanted but couldn't seem to get? Or maybe, by having Mary Jane love him, he felt like someone could. Neglect from his father, on that behalf. But yet, things had flip-flopped, and Harry still didn't feel satisfied on his father's behalf. His father was now showing him some appreciation, although… Peter had still got the girl. This cut another hole of jealousy in Peter's direction, and the fact that his father was noticing him still didn't improve his down struck emotions. Instead, he felt hollow and unwanted at Mary Jane's actions. He shouldn't have stuck up for her at Thanksgiving.

Stifling a yawn, he turned down the hall, exhaustion mingled with the effects of alcohol now beginning to overtake him. Peter… Harry knew he shouldn't have felt the need to take Mary Jane from Peter like that, but yet… something in him had latched onto that idea and couldn't let it go. Peter was his best friend though, and now that Harry began to think about how horrible his actions had been, the sorrow in Peter's direction began to sink in. He shouldn't be jealous of Peter. After all, Peter had not only lost his parents, but had just lost his uncle, was picked on in school more than any other, and only had two friends in the entire world: Harry… and science. Peter was so indulged in the study, Harry wouldn't be surprised if he took the avocation to the alter. Of course, Marry Jane was and would always be Peter's first choice, but she was much more likely to turn him down. Yet if she rejected him openly, he would probably kill himself. Harry, however, had never seen a person so dedicated to science like that since his own father. What triggered the addiction? The determination they both had, but Harry completely lacked. He couldn't see what was so interesting and appealing about it. You messed with numbers, odds, risk, luck, and brains. Harry didn't feel like devoting himself to something that… that _boring. _He chuckled slightly, and was glad that something was actually making him laugh after all the shit that rained down in his life. That was until he glanced into the next room over.

He hadn't even meant to look up, but a flicker of movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced up out of instinct to what he thought was the curtain ruffling. Even so, if that had been it, why would the window have been open? But it wasn't the curtain, although the curtain _was_ ruffling and the window _was_ open. It was something red and tattered. Something standing over a body wrapped in a towel that rested on a lounge chair. It was Spiderman.

Harry's first reaction to this situation was unsteady. He placed a hand on the door frame; brow furrowed, and looked over his surroundings to make sure he just wasn't drunk and seeing things. Time seemed to freeze as he observed everything. Spiderman was looking downward at something… no, someone in a towel, the demigod's expression stern and sympathetic. He couldn't identify the person behind the mask, due to the darkness of the room, but the mask was ripped and jagged, like an explosion had deformed it. He came to realize the body in a towel was his father, and this realization alone caught his breath in his throat. Oh no, his father couldn't be hurt… not now… not after everything…  
His heart beat speed up quickly, and he felt his body tremble beneath him. He lost his weight and stumbled slightly. Spiderman glanced up. They locked eyes.

Harry had no choice now but to walk into the room, Spiderman's surprised gaze staring at him. It made him feel awkward and stupid; somehow weak under the eyes of the superhero. Then again, he didn't look quite so super at the moment. Harry saw the scrapes and cuts beneath the mask and circling under Spiderman's eyes like hungry sharks. The blood dripping from his mouth was grotesque; it reminded Harry of those old vampire movies he used to watch. They would suck the blood out of their victim, and then proof of the latter would slide down the crease that defined their chin, thick and coagulated… and then they would stare at the screen; pale and bloodthirsty. Their faces shining with the realization of the crime they had just committed. The reflection of the vampire was how Spiderman appeared: he was pale, and had a gaze in his eyes as if he had done something. Something he couldn't tell anyone. Something… terrible. And all at once Harry realized what it was.  
Seizing courage inside himself he was unaware that he possessed, Harry glared at the hero before him, and bellowed out, "What have you done?!"  
Spiderman just stared. Sympathetic, it seemed, but Harry knew he felt no sympathy. Spiderman was nothing more then a dirty, good for nothing villain. He was no hero.

Taking a step forward, and repeating himself almost as suddenly as he had spoken, Harry screamed, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Still, no answer from Spiderman. A fury built up inside Harry and a realization hit him. In the drawer to his left, there was a gun. His father kept it there in case of theft, and Harry thanked his father for this storage under his breath, then jerked around in the direction of the table. His grandmother had given them this table… it was one of the few things in this house that was not worth much, nor purchased by his father. Harry thought it was ironic in a sense that his father chose to keep the gun in that particular table, but dismissed all previous thoughts as he yanked open the drawer harshly, snatched up the gun clumsily, and pointed it back in the direction where Spiderman had stood only seconds before. The curtains were blowing harshly. Spiderman had gone.  
Dropping the gun, which clattered unheard to Harry's ears, on the floor, Harry rushed to his father's side.  
"Please be okay, please be okay," he muttered, feeling his palms grow sweaty and his legs grow numb. Hell, right now Harry would be thankful if his father wasn't dead. But Harry knew… Harry knew from the beginning.  
He drew back the towel, and gazed upon the deep wounds Norman Osborn had torn into his lower torso. Dried blood cracked along the edges, and even now there was still blood seeping from the depths of Norman's insides. Harry let out a jagged sigh and ran his fingers across the wounds, bringing back blood. The skin had been cold. He glanced at his hands for a moment, then back at his father. No breathing. No heartbeat… Norman Osborn was dead.

It was like someone had dropped a few cement blocks onto Harry's chest, and he felt the weight drag him down slightly as he fell backwards, the tears spilling from the corners of his eyes before he realized he had moved. "No… no this can't…" his vision fogged slightly, but he caught the stone outline of his father's face, gazing at nothing, and the lifeless form of his figure before his eyes were too clogged with tears to see anything.  
Strangely enough Harry thought back to the shattered shot glass that remained downstairs. It was broken, the jagged edges gleaming on the countertop. Harry curled into a ball, staining the front of his shirt with wet droplets. A lot more was shattered now.

Harry swallowed and gazed up, his eyes cold and unforgiving. Spiderman would have to pay.


End file.
